Still Protecting Friends
by LittleGingerBiscuit
Summary: Three years after Reichenbach, John realises he can't grieve forever. To cure himself, he re-enlists in the army and is sent back to Afghanistan. But the outcome was never certain, and never expected.


_John Watson._

_Army Doctor._

_Still protecting friends._

It took three years. Three agonising years, of waiting and hoping and breaking and never really healing. Three years of dwindling sympathy and empty rooms, of convincing moments full of hope and the imminent disappointment directly after.

Family is one thing. It helps for a while – the people circling and softening the impact of the fall. But after a while, it stops being enough. Family can't hold together what they never understood in the first place.

It takes a decision to set the wheels in motion. Just one person has to make one decision, and the rest constructs itself.

It took John Watson's decision to bring Sherlock Holmes back home.

221b Baker Street, once flooded in sunlight and inhabited by the greatest mind in London, now lies empty. A lot is packed in boxes, gathering dust under the kitchen table. Any sign of its former owners is shut away, kept in the dark. The keys still hang in the flat downstairs, waiting for the day when one of them will come back.

It's impossible to say who suffered the most from the decision. In the event of physical suffering, John Watson's trials were incomparable. Emotional suffering, upon receiving the final notice, was for Mrs Hudson to face alone.

"I'm going back."

The three-year-mark. That's when everything started to spiral downwards. Before then, the bear mention of Sherlock's name brought on silence and sorrow. But now, three years after his death, grieving was no longer an option.

"You'll be missed, John."

"Stay safe, John."

"You're doing your country proud, John."

"Don't screw it up, John."

"Make it back alive, John. We'll have dinner."

"We'll see you soon, John."

A soldier's send-off is the thing he takes with him on his way in to war. The thing he remembers while he's fighting. A reminder of what he's fighting for.

But it's only ever as good as he wants it to be.

And John Watson was hoping for more. So, so much more. He was hoping for someone to draw him back, rid him of the uniform and convince him that he couldn't leave.

Mrs Hudson had tried.

"Dear, you shouldn't be doing this."

They had been standing in the living room, watching themselves in the mirror as she adjusted John's shoulder patches.

He'd sighed, and in that single breath she saw reflected his fears, doubts, hopes, determination. "I have to. I can't be sad forever."

"You boys," she'd said, a catch in her voice. "Always doing such silly things." She'd wiped away a tear for them both, and walked away.

When John Watson left, he took what was left of Sherlock with him.

~SH~

And it took ten months for him to come back.

A letter was sent ahead of him, a notice to let everyone know he was coming home.

~SH~

He was a hero, held up high by his allies as he descended the stairs from the plane. A crowd had gathered to show their appreciation, built of friends and family. Built of people who cared, who had warned him not to go.

He bore a British flag and an army cap, displayed with pride for the onlookers to his return. Someone had given him flowers, too – white lilies in a large arrangement.

He was put in the back of a black car and driven through London, to go and see the one person who he came back for.

The dark marble was reflected in the car windows as they pulled in to the cemetery.

SHERLOCK HOLMES.

Quickly replaced in the focus by another set of words. Newer words, freshly carved and shining in the November sun.

JOHN WATSON.

~SH~

It was over quickly. Nobody wanted to prolong it.

There had been speeches, of course. One stood out against the others, voiced clearly through the hall with a level of emotion attainable by a select few people.

"Friends protect people. They help them and guide them to make the right decisions. There will always be times when people make mistakes – stupid, idiotic mistakes – that could crack a friendship down the middle. But friends protect people, and only a fool would be unforgiving enough to waste something as valuable as that. I would like to believe that I'd have gained John's forgiveness, if he'd just hung on a week longer before he left." Then they turned, stood straight, and saluted the coffin in front of them.

And then people started to leave, a flood of bodies drifting towards the doors in fits of tears. So many minds so struck with grief, now all faced with their own decisions to make.

In amongst them, glancing around with panicked, desperate eyes, was the man John Watson had been fighting for.

_Sherlock Holmes._

_Consulting Detective._

_Lost without his blogger._


End file.
